A woman who writes feels too much.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.